


composure

by civillove



Series: irresistible force paradox [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:02:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22915936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civillove/pseuds/civillove
Summary: Inspired by the latest Brightwell dialogue in 1x15: “You’re the one I like talking to” and “And I promise, I’m gonna do better.”--“Why don’t you let someone else take care of you for once.” There’s a hint of a challenge there, like Malcolm expects her to be argumentative but she doesn’t have the energy to debate.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Dani Powell
Series: irresistible force paradox [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658032
Comments: 33
Kudos: 151





	composure

notes: Big thanks to Suitupbuttercup for chattin’ with me and their latest brightwell fic, Warning Labels (go check it out!). It gave me major inspiration and the nerve to write / post this.

\--

Dani knows all about composure; the word lives and breathes with her.

Over the years, she knows it’s part of what makes her a good cop, the ability to compartmentalize, the moment where she draws a deep breath into her lungs and she’s able to sift what’s going on in front of her. It’s a skill she’s had to work on because it doesn’t come easy—when there’s blood and broken bodies and unfinished life stories stripped bare at her fingertips; she has to count.

She counts to five, front and back, and her lungs contract before the world stops spinning and she’s able to concentrate.

Most of the time it’s easy, she’s learned a pattern that she knows off by heart, as if it’s written on one of her veins. It doesn’t pay to be emotional; she can’t bring things home with her.

Not like that, not with what she sees on a day to day basis.

The things that people are capable of are gruesome enough to break her in half. Sometimes it’s hard for her to accept that she lives amongst killers that are hidden in the shadows, or worse, in plain sight. People she hasn’t caught yet.

So she keeps a solid wall up within her mind and takes time to make sure she’s always adding bricks. It’s not that she’s made of stone herself, Dani’s empathetic; she probably cares _too_ much. But being emotional is something else entirely—it can get you killed.

She’s lost friends on the force that way, she’s seen others buckle under the pressure, she’s gone to funerals where good cops lost their focus. A second is all it takes. One wrong second. She can’t afford not to be concentrated, when a moment breaks through her wall like a sledgehammer.

Some days are better than others; it’s a very balanced game of give and take. When the team works on one case, when their focus is on a specific set of victims, on one profile and projected outcomes, it’s easier for her to take care of herself. The overwhelming white-board with papers that connect the dots is comforting, the weight of Malcolm, JT and Gil standing close by, all focused on the same task, adds to the balance she desperately seeks to keep.

It’s when there’s too much going on that she begins to lose her footing.

Dani can feel the weight of unspoken conversations she refuses to have with herself begin to settle on her shoulders like a crowbar digging between the bone; trying to force its way inside, to dissemble her wall.

Her fingers flex against the table she’s sitting at, tapping her pen once before bringing the end of it to her mouth. They’ve been stuck on a particular case for about a month, which isn’t unusual to have something ongoing but the fact that they haven’t caught this guy yet digs under her skin in the worst fucking way. They pick up other small cases, filling time, and she splinters to multi-task. But this manila folder always sits in the back of her mind, going over evidence, the profile Bright has put together—anything to keep herself fresh and constant.

Moving onto other cases somehow feels disrespectful; inaction feels like giving up.

Dani swallows as she looks over the crime scene photos of broken girls, of clothes torn and bodies fractured.

_“He’s a masochist,” Bright nearly buzzes, not by the information coming from his mouth but for the fact that he’s finally piecing together a profile that fits._

_Sometimes, despite what their working on, Dani is captured by how utterly electric he is when he’s profiling. She can see puzzle pieces of all shapes and sizes move behind his eyes, a calm stream of blue even though he always has so much happening. He manipulates and scaffolds and not only figures out what pieces fit together but why, who’s made the pieces that way, why they’re that shape in the first place._

_It’s admirable if not a little annoying._

_“He wants his victims to enjoy their own pain just as he does. It’s about control, most likely because he’s never had any in his life. A childhood without a good parent structure,” There’s a soft smile playing with the edge of his mouth, a gruesome connection he’s making to himself, “A nagging girlfriend, a job that brings him no satisfaction—he’s grappling with control of his own making.”_

_“Edrisa said the last girl only lived for twenty-four hours once he kidnapped her from the campus.”_

_His eyes switch to hers, realization seeming to dawn on him that his heightened behavior does not meet the majority of the room. His shoulders curl, just slightly, and she thinks there’s something like sheepish guilt pulling on the lines of his face as he absorbs Dani’s words._

_“Right, well,” He clears his throat, “He’s growing impatient. His first victim was left to live seventy-two hours before he killed her.”_

_“Being tortured for someone’s sick pleasure isn’t really living.” She states, leaning back into her chair and she knows she’s nitpicking but that wall is shuddering in her mind’s eye._

_She breathes, counts to five forward and back, and picks up a brick to reinforce—she’s letting this case get to her, the photographs of the girls before they were taken compared to how they were found burning a hole in her retinas to the point where she can’t sleep._

_Dani tries to let go but it’s proving easier said than done—why haven’t they caught this guy yet?_

_Malcolm holds onto her gaze, the tension in the room snapping like a rubber band at her words._

_“I know.” He says after a moment and there’s an apology there, wrapped around his syllables._

_Gil draws JT over to the white-board, murmurs something about talking to the latest victim’s mother._

_She can feel him digging, trying to pry her apart like pages in a novel, read words on her skin. Malcolm does that without permission and she knows she’s not special; he does that to nearly everyone he meets. That’s part of what makes him such a decent profiler._

_He sees people like he’s looking through glass; hidden words and pasts and regrets and shame narrating themselves to him, perfectly clear. She steels herself; her toes dig into the floor and she tries her best not to snap at him—_

_Dani does not belong underneath his microscope._

_“Stop.” She says quietly and Bright shakes his head as if he’s restarting himself, clearing his throat and moving to where Gil and JT are coming up with their next plan of attack._

Her thumb draws against the corner of the latest photograph and pauses as a cheap Styrofoam cup is set down in front of her. Malcolm sits down on the corner of the table, his thigh near the folder she has spread out. He’s wearing a blue suit today, which only brings out the color of his eyes that remind her a river frosted over with the beginning of winter ice.

He takes in a patient breath but says nothing for a moment, eyes brushing over the papers but settles on her hands instead. She pulls them back and slips them under the table, her fingers playing with the bottom of her shirt.

“Dani,” He says after a moment but his words of concern don’t come, instead: “Earl Grey.”

The corner of her mouth twitches despite herself, “Thank you.” She picks up the flimsy cup and wraps her hands around it, the warmth working its way through her pores and up her arms. She takes a slow breath but the familiar scent with…something different in the mix does little to comfort her.

She raises an eyebrow at him, “Is this ‘French Earl Grey’?”

He smiles, something genuine and wide and it makes a sensation she doesn’t want to name roll in her stomach. “I was wondering if you’d catch that.”

“It’s hard to get different teas by me,” She taps the side of her nose playfully, “I’m a connoisseur. Besides, rose petals are a little easier to pick up on.”

Malcolm brings his own cup to his lips and takes a sip, “I’m trying to get the combination right. It’s easy until you gotta shove all the loose tea into the strainer.”

She blinks because it takes a moment for his words to register. Wait, so this isn’t just a teabag? “You bought loose tea?”

He straightens his back and taps his middle finger against his cup, a nervous tick, something he does when he’s considering words that have just left his mouth. He wonders if he’s misspoken somehow, “Yeah there’s this hole in the wall place around the corner. Make your own tea concoctions,” He smiles and she bites down on her lower lip. “Jasmine isn’t unheard of to mix with Earl Grey either.”

“You didn’t have to make complicated tea for me,” She closes the folder on the table and she can see the moment where Malcolm begins to unwind; most likely his intention for bringing her tea. “Nine-dollar bulk tea bags do the trick.”

“Yeah but I wanted to,” Bright licks his lips, looking down into his tea a moment before meeting her gaze. _For you_ hangs heavily in the air like it’s connected on a string between them.

Dani swallows, an emotion swelling in the bottom of her throat that she does her best to ignore. His words from not too long ago start to spin against her ear drums; _I promise, I’m gonna do better_ and somehow they feel warmer than the tea against her fingertips.

She nods, unsure of what to say but the silence isn’t uncomfortable between them. There are a few photos sticking out of the manila folder and she presses them back where they belong, a heavy weight returning when she thinks about the families that they haven’t been able to bring closure.

And worse, girls that might be targeted this very moment because they haven’t caught who they need to.

When she looks up again, Malcolm is watching her, gaze careful and calculated. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to say something that purposely grazes a nerve, “You look tired.”

She smiles, can’t help it, “You know that’s one of the worst things you can say to someone, right?” Dani’s mostly teasing, trying to let him off the hook—because she knows that underneath his words is genuine concern.

She’s not getting enough sleep, she’s restless at night, and she spirals a little when she comes to work. She feels useless and frustrated and there’s this sensation that this guy that they’re trying to find is slipping through her fingers.

That he’ll disappear and they’ll never get the chance to put him away.

Sometimes she has nightmares of a faceless man kidnapping her; that she’s as helpless as she feels every hour that they can’t track him down, that it’s pointless to scream because no one hears her.

“You should hear me try and ask someone out on a date.” He shakes his head into his cup, taking another sip of tea. Then he blinks because, “Actually, it’s a lot like this but with more rejection.”

Dani laughs, and it feels like pent up tension escaping her chest. There’s a devious quirk of her mouth when she says, “If you want to ask me out, try not to lead with how awful I look.”

His reply is quick, “You could never.” Malcolm smirks, dipping his head with boyish charm, “And I’ll keep that in mind.”

It sounds like some sort of promise and, for a moment, the file in front of her is forgotten.

\--

She wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, literally, because of twisting and turning all night. The sheets are caught around her ankles when she tries to reach for her cell phone buzzing on her nightstand table and barely answers.

Gil’s called her once already and she’s late; another body, another profile, another crime scene to dive into.

There’s a voice in the back of her mind that whispers like a feather brushing against nerves, about that case file that’s unsolved and lays in her desk, gathering dust.

Dani apologizes to him before hanging up and gets ready as quickly as she can, her sheets sprawling across her hardwood floor like spilt milk. She pulls on black jeans and a maroon t-shirt that most definitely has a coffee stain near the bottom right and combs her fingers through her messy curls.

Ankle boots and car keys and her cell phone, gun, badge, and forgets her wallet not once but twice before she manages to go through her front door.

She tries her best to ignore the headache beginning to pound along her temples.

\--

By the time Dani makes her way into an apartment complex that looks like it’s held up with duct tape and concentration, Malcolm is already spurring on about the profile he’s pieced together. Edrisa is smiling at him over her shoulder and collecting samples around the body on the floor.

She stops next to JT, who gives her a look of careful amusement that usually doesn’t bother her. Malcolm pauses when Gil turns to address her and she clears her throat before apologizing a second time for being late.

She’s usually more put together, but then again, she usually has more than four hours of sleep multiple nights in a row and by now she’s at least has a cup of coffee or tea in her hand. She’s just glad that Malcolm’s gaze doesn’t linger on her for long before he continues and she runs a careful set of fingers along the back of her neck, a kiss of sweat gathering there.

Maybe she should have left her leather jacket in the car.

“ _Another_ embalming case?” JT asks, snapping her attention back to the task at hand.

She takes a shallow breath as Malcolm rolls his eyes, “No, this has nothing to do with embalming. It’s about the beetles, which, I get the confusion—Ancient Egypt and all.” That doesn’t seem to satisfy JT, who’s face is pinched with frustration and the game of ‘connect the dots’ Bright sometimes plays when he’s laying all the information out in his head.

Beetles and embalming; _what?_ How much did she miss from being late? Dani takes a step forward to look at the body, Edrisa smiling up at the profiler with that faraway look in her eyes that she often has when talking to him, “Scarabaeidae to be exact.” She has a dead beetle between tweezers and she holds it up.

Malcolm grins like there’s a secret joke between them, “Aphonus brevicruris.”

“Gesundheit.” JT replies, tilting his head as he steps over a spot on the carpet that has blood on it.

Dani can feel herself sway a little as she folds her arms in front of herself, trying to focus on the body and the task at hand. The heat beginning to build on the back of her neck and traveling down her spine doesn’t fade away like she thought it would and the conversation in the room has a dull roar that reminds her of the ocean echoing against her eardrum.

She lets out a short breath, brushing her fingers over her forehead, clearing her throat to wash her gaze over the body. It’s a man, Caucasian, mid-40s, well dressed for this part of town and for the gritty apartment he’s ended up in. The ceiling has a hole in it, letting in a draft, the wood rotted in some places and furniture gone to shit—clearly collected at some sort of yard sale and used too many times.

“It’s a type of rhinoceros beetle,” Malcolm kneels down next to the body, “Did you know that there are over 300 species of the rhinoceros beetle and the horns are used for digging so it’s really no surprise why our killer would put a bunch of these in the chest cavity—”

Dani digs her heels into the stained carpet, a wave of dizziness capturing her in its clutches and refusing to let go. She attempts to right her concentration, to breathe in slowly through her nose, but a bout of nausea follows and threatens to knock her right onto the floor. Black pin-pricks flood her eyesight and covers most of the crime scene for a moment, hiding all the little details she might have seen on a good day.

“He was definitely still alive when they were put in there.” Edrisa adds, using another tool to reach inside the chest cavity and shift an organ to the side.

A beetle clicks and buzzes as it moves amongst the tissue and Dani nearly loses it right there and then—she takes a step back, nearly bumping into a technician, “Excuse me.”

She turns and moves quickly, making her way back downstairs of the apartment building and grapples air into her lungs when she reaches the outside. Her hands are shaking as she grabs onto the banister, her knees knocking into one another.

Her stomach lurches like she might vomit, but there’s nothing for her to throw up. She just needs to take a few moments; crime scene on an empty stomach and too many wayward thoughts spinning around in her head. Beetles; it feels like beetles are skittering against the inside of her skull, that wall she tries so hard to keep up beginning to show gaps that have the bugs slipping through.

Dani puts a hand over her mouth and stands up a little straighter, the cool air kissing her warmed skin. She gains control over herself and knows that she has to go back in; just has to get this case over with. She’s not one to actually take a break, but it’s the first time in a while that she’s willing to admit that she might need one.

When she turns Gil is already there, his hand outstretched like he might touch her but doesn’t, “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” She says quickly, “I didn’t eat this morning.” Her gaze finds Malcolm’s, who’s right on Gil’s heels out of the apartment complex. He pauses when he sees her, a breath leaving his lungs, controlled concern on his face.

He didn’t even bother to take off the medical gloves, rubbery off-white, that sit loosely on his fingers. Gil’s still giving her the once over, her reply to him apparently not satisfactory.

He opens and closes his mouth before, “You’ve been a little off for the past week.”

She bites down hard on the tip of her tongue because _Jesus_ ; is her lack of a sleeping pattern that _obvious_ to everyone she’s working with? She shakes her head, shifts on the balls of her feet, “Really it’s nothing—”

Malcolm clears his throat, “I think she’s just…preoccupied with the ongoing case, Gil. Like we all are.”

Preoccupied is the _wrong_ word to use and Dani nearly feels like strangling him, her hands clenching at her sides because she knows distantly that he’s trying to help but, “I have it under control.”

Gil’s already got the answer he was seeking, “Under control to you looks like nearly fainting at a crime scene?” He asks, skepticism coloring his words. She goes to argue but he puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing, “We’re not gonna let that case disappear.” Is all he says and it’s probably the lack of sleep but she feels tears pinprick the back of her eyes.

She tears her gaze away and blinks before nodding, crossing her arms over her chest and digging her nails into the soft flesh of her forearms to ground herself.

“But if you’re going to be working, I need you sharp,” The other shoe drops, “Go get some rest.” Gil takes a step back, “Malcolm will take you home.”

Dani makes a noise of protest but his look is serious and final before he disappears up the steps and back into the apartment. Malcolm seems to sense he’s in trouble because he’s quiet, his eyes not quite meeting hers as he takes the rubber gloves off.

Then it’s like a switch flipping, his gaze is on her, profiling her reaction to him, filing away little pieces of her for later, “You’re upset with me.”

She’s not mad at him, not really, it’s not his fault that she dug herself into the ground, that she ran herself ragged. “You overshare,” Her voice is rough but she can’t tell whether it’s because she doesn’t feel well or because she’s frustrated. “I know how to do my job.”

He takes a step towards her and shakes his head, his face etching with empathy, “No one said that.” And she sees the exact moment where he realizes this is more than what she’s saying, more than what she’s offering up to him, that he’s discovered a vulnerable nerve that’s raw and exposed. “That’s not why we didn’t catch him yet.”

 _Yet;_ when is that supposed to be?

Dani swallows, drowning in the blue of his eyes, trying to assure herself with his words while at the same time telling herself that she doesn’t need to hear them. She’s tired and she’s allowed her wall to come down and that’s all this is—it says nothing about how good she is at her job.

She lets out another breath that’s somehow through her teeth and glances past him at the apartment steps, to the crime scene she’s supposed to be at.

“I think you could take Gil on a good day,” Malcolm quips, “But there’s no way he’s letting you back in there.”

She knows he’s right and feels herself resign, her shoulders curling slightly inward at the admission of defeat. Malcolm takes another experimental step forward and wraps an arm around her upper back, squeezing her into his side as he begins to walk down the street.

“Why don’t you let someone else take care of you for once.” There’s a hint of a challenge there, like he expects her to be argumentative but she doesn’t have the energy to debate.

There’s words in-between, words he doesn’t say, assurances that by allowing him to do this that it doesn’t make her weak. She thinks about the amount of times Gil’s asked her to take Bright back to his apartment after a case, about how hard he’s working towards keeping his word about doing better—

And allows him to guide her to her car and drive her back home.

\--

Dani should have known that he wasn’t going to drop her off and call it a day. She’s been up to his apartment more than she likes to think about and considers asking about Sunshine before she bites the inside of her cheek.

Malcolm follows her upstairs, inside her space and suddenly she’s assaulted with waves of self-consciousness that it’s not as put together as it usually is. Just like her. She makes sure to wander towards her bedroom and shuts the door so that he can’t see in but she already knows, just by looking at him, that he’s taking a great amount of time to analyze every inch of her place.

He can’t help it, he observes and profiles all like breathing, in and out, a knee-jerk reaction. He puts his hands behind him and clasps his fingers together, a very physical comparison to biting his tongue—he’s doing his best not to give little parts of herself back that he’s learning all from looking.

His gaze eventually finds hers, a soft smile playing with his lips. “Can I get you anything?”

She swallows and peels her leather jacket off and hates that it sticks to her like a second skin. She distantly wonders if she has a fever, “Well, I don’t know if I want tea that’s not bought from a fancy store near the precinct.” The joke feels weird on her tongue.

Her hands come down on the back of one of her kitchen chairs, wood digging into her palms.

Dani hates that she’s suddenly thinking about his kitchen, a cold marble island counter and chairs not made to be slept in. When she first saw Malcolm’s apartment, she thought about those house catalogs that have furniture for sale—a place with cold lines and expressionless things. Well, except for that impressive blade collection.

But it didn’t seem like a space he’s very comfortable in, that he wants to _be_ in. Her place isn’t as nice, isn’t as put together or expensive, but at least it feels like a home.

A soft laugh slips out of his mouth and he takes off the gray suit jacket he has on today, draping it over the back of another one of her chairs. “I see you’re spoiled now. No ordinary tea bag will do.”

Dani slips a hand over her forehead and pulls her hair back out of her face even though her curls don’t listen, “Tea sounds fine,” She motions to the kettle, “I’m just glad you’re not giving my apartment a profile.”

Malcolm grabs the kettle and fills it with water, biting down on his lower lip with an impish expression, “I’m trying really hard not to talk about the fact that you wished you lived near the ocean,” And she blinks, because _how_ does he do that, “And you probably have a cousin who does. Who you’re close with.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a correct answer; sharing about Jaden who lives in California. Dani watches him for a moment, following the long lines of his back in his crisp white button-down shirt before she swallows and forces her attention down to the table in front of her.

“You don’t have to stay.”

He doesn’t roll his eyes, not quite, as he turns to look at her, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Why don’t you go put something more comfortable on.” He’s not going anywhere. “Tea will be done by then.”

Dani licks her lips and looks down at her very sad, very wrinkled coffee stained t-shirt before she decides he’s right. She stands and holds onto the corner of her table a moment as the kitchen tilts off axis and makes her way to her bedroom.

She resigns to pulling on a black pair of joggers and a sports bra, trading in her bra for something more comfortable. She tugs a distressed white t-shirt over her head and shivers, the hair on her arms standing up straight. Before passing the bathroom, she glances a look inside—her face is drawn and pale in the mirror, eyes she almost doesn’t recognize staring back at her.

 _Jesus,_ no wonder Gil sent her home. She runs a hand over the side of her face and walks back into her kitchen, the sight of Malcolm with the sleeves of his button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, hunched over a baking sheet.

He’s taken pre-made cinnamon rolls out of her fridge and is arranging them carefully, glancing up at her when he feels her presence, “I overheard you tell Gil you hadn’t eaten yet, so I’m thinking you probably should.”

“Little judgmental coming from you.” She raises an eyebrow, plopping down into a seat nearby him.

He smiles, turning to put the sheet into the oven before clapping his hands, rubbing his palms together. “True, and yet, you’d do the same thing for me. I figure it’s only fair.” He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms across his chest, “I was debating homemade cinnamon rolls but I sense you’re fading fast.”

“Great profile,” She mumbles, resting her chin on the palm of her hand as her elbow finds the table. Dani then raises an eyebrow, “Wait, you bake?”

Malcolm hesitates for a moment like he’s revealed something accidently, before he nods his head. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

She convinces herself that his words sound like an invitation based solely on the fever threatening to encompass her. He moves to set her tea down and motions her towards the living room, “Come on.”

Dani stands and is entirely grateful for the steadying hand he places on her lower back as she moves into her living room and sits in the corner of her couch with the cup of tea between her palms. She breathes in the Earl Grey that she’s familiar with and takes a long sip; she tries not to think about that he remembers how she takes it (just three heaping spoons of sugar, no cream).

There’s a quiet circling them that she could live in, something comfortable and organic, built from time spent together and reading between the lines, of trying to learn who the other is. He stays in the kitchen until the timer goes off and brings in a plate of cinnamon rolls with icing rolling down the sides.

He sits down next to her, one of his legs bent up underneath himself. He’s close but not touching her; even then she can feel the heat of his body seeping through the stitching of her clothes.

“You should get going.” She says, taking one of the cinnamon rolls and biting into it. When her stomach gives no groans of protest, she takes another bite.

Malcolm hums and motions to the plate, “Did you know that some people call these cinnamon snails?” He raises an eyebrow, “’Cause you know, the shape of the shell?”

She can’t tell whether he’s being serious or not but rolls her eyes good naturedly anyways; the avoidance of him responding to her comment saying a lot more than he realizes. Dani licks icing off her upper lip and it takes her a moment to notice that he’s watching her, eyes flickering to her lips before he looks away.

“I uh,” Malcolm straightens his posture, “I realize that I talk a lot but I’m actually a decent listener, too.”

She appreciates he’s attempting to create a bridge between them. She can talk to him, just like he’s mentioned that he likes talking to her. There are broken fragments of a wall inside her that whisper for her not to, to shrug her shoulder and tell him that she’s fine, that she just hasn’t been getting enough sleep.

But if she wants him to make an effort, she needs to do it too.

“I keep…” Dani takes a small sip of her tea before setting it down on her coffee table, “I think about those girls all the time. I see a faceless man when I sleep.”

There’s a shadow that passes over Malcolm’s eyes, almost gone as soon as it appears, something that darkens the color of blue to remind her of the deepest parts of an ocean. He knows all about horrific images that are capable of haunting like ghosts.

“And I know it’s pointless to give myself completely to something I can’t control but when I move onto another case, I just feel like—”

“Like you’re forgetting about them.” He fills in slowly, and of course he can read her.

Dani looks away from him, decides that the fabric of her couch is much more interesting because she can feel that same emotion well in her chest. She clears her throat and nods because she doesn’t trust herself to talk, she’s so beat down; she’s so frayed at the edges.

She doesn’t feel a tear slip down her cheek but it drips onto her wrist before she wipes the track away and lets out a shuddered breath.

“Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m exhausted.”

Malcolm nods, “I know the feeling.” And he’s not just saying that, she knows that he gets it. He understands.

Embarrassment stains her cheeks red and while touch might not be something he’s altogether comfortable with, he knows that’s what she needs, because he inches forward until she can lean into him. He leaves a breath of a space in case she doesn’t want to but Dani finds herself closing her eyes and her face presses against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of cedar and tea.

Once she makes that decision, it’s like a set of dominos falling—Malcolm cups the back of her head and threads his fingers through her hair, gentle, just enough.

“He'll mess up,” He says after a moment, his chin dipping slightly so he’s speaking into her hair and she shivers when his breath brushes against her skin. “And when he does, we'll be there.”

There’s a stillness that settles over her shoulders, nearly like a blanket, even when Malcolm pulls back. He offers another cinnamon roll and she takes one because eating is actually making her feel better; she might be able to kick being rundown with another cup of tea and a decent night sleep.

Malcolm stays with her and talks her ear off about rhinoceros beetles.

It’s a different type of calm composure that she never knew she needed.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for giving this a chance! i hope to write more for them in the future :3 i'm over at blainesebastian on tumblr if you wanna say hi


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